Tear yourself from your boundaries, o my metropolis, and drift with the graceful slowness of continents to my arms. Though the others look not upon you, for you are black with smoke and sharp with the tongues of your children, I rejoice, for mine eyes have their full run of your rough and uncouth fierceness.
Come to my arms, o Manchester, and fit your city limits round my roads, your slums to my city centre. You make me desire the filth of the streets and the grey of bleak great winter skies above bleaker little lives.
Dirty me, my dear.